


Hold On, I'm Coming

by peggin



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-10-28 01:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10821303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peggin/pseuds/peggin
Summary: Peter discovers that Neal is still alive (begins shortly after the end of “Au Revoir”)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title refers to the song Neal played on the tape when he escaped from prison in the Pilot episode.

“What ya doing, hon?”

Peter was sitting at the coffee table, he had papers spread all over the surface and several boxes stacked at his feet around the table. He’d been pouring over one of the documents so intently, Elizabeth could tell he hadn’t even heard her enter the house. “Oh, hey, hon. When did you get home?”

“Just a moment ago.” Elizabeth looked at Peter and frowned. “I know that face, that’s your manhunt face. I thought you weren’t supposed to be doing fieldwork anymore.”

After a long pause, Peter replied, “This isn’t exactly officially sanctioned FBI business.”

Elizabeth was intrigued. “What is it, then?”

Peter paused again before responding, and when he finally answered, what he said seemed to be a complete non sequitur. “El, tell me again what Neal said to you the last time you spoke to him.”

Elizabeth sat down on the couch next to her husband. “Why are you bringing that up?”

“Just tell me, hon. Please, I think it’s important.”

“Well, I was worried about the job you were working on, taking down the Pink Panthers, and I told Neal that I couldn’t lose you, especially not with a baby on the way. I told him I needed him to promise to keep you safe.”

“And he did.”

“Well, yeah.”

“What did he say? I mean, what did he say, exactly?

Elizabeth thought about it for a moment, trying to remember the exact phrasing. “He swore to me that he would stop at nothing to keep you safe. Then he said that we -- you, me, and the baby -- were his family. Why are you asking me about this?”

“Do you remember when Neal took the watch off your wrist?”

“Sure, of course I do.”

“He told us exactly what he was about to do, and we still never saw it coming.”

“Yes, true… where are you going with this?”

Peter looked away for several long seconds before turning back and saying. “I think he did it again.”

“Okay, you’re going to have to explain what you mean by that.”

Peter opened up one of the boxes on the floor next to him, and pulled out a file folder. “The other day, after Mozzie was here, I took out the box with Neal’s effects in it. One of the things in there was a key to a storage locker. I found the locker. There was a lot of stuff in it, and I want to tell you about all of it, but let’s start with this,” he said, handing the folder to her.

Elizabeth began to look through the folder. “Newspaper articles?” She shook her head, still not sure where Peter was going with this.

Peter picked up the first article from the folder. “This is an article about a guy who offered to testify against one of the Pink Panthers.” He picked up the next article, “Here’s one from a couple of months later -- his wife died in a car crash.” Peter picked up the next article. “This one, a guy stole $20,000 from someone we now know was a member of the Panthers.” Another article. “His son died in a skiing accident six months later. There are at least a dozen other articles like that in this file, El.”

“What are you saying, Peter?”

Peter looked at her intently. “I’m saying, as far as the Pink Panthers are concerned, Neal double-crossed them. I’m saying we are Neal’s family, and he really was willing to stop at nothing to keep us safe.”

Tears began to pool in Elizabeth’s eyes, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe. “You think Neal let himself get killed to keep the Panthers from coming after us?” She stood up and started moving to the far side of the room. The idea that Neal had died because of the promise she’d forced out of him made her feel like she was going to be sick.

“No! No, honey, God, no!” Peter rushed across the room and forced Elizabeth to look him in the eyes. “I don’t think Neal let himself get killed at all. I think his death was the greatest con he ever pulled. I think Neal is still alive. And I intend to find him. I’m going to find a way to bring him home.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Elizabeth begin their search for Neal.

Peter got Elizabeth a glass of wine before settling back on the couch and starting to outline everything he’d discovered at the storage locker. By the time he was done Elizabeth was almost convinced. Almost. “This is all very compelling, hon, but… you saw the body! He was dead! How could he fake that?”

Peter shook his head and smiled, “He’s Neal. And it’s not like this is the first time he faked his death. Remember about nine years ago, Monterey Bay?”

Elizabeth gasped. “The great white shark!”

“Yep. He had me fooled for a couple of weeks. Long enough for him to get out of the country. He’s done it a couple of other times, too. He once told me it was easy to get a death certificate, all it takes is about $500.”

“But we’re not talking about a death certificate here, you and Mozzie saw him. Dead.”

“Yeah, Mozzie. Mozzie who, just a few days ago went out of his way to convince me that he no longer believes in conspiracy theories, that it couldn’t have been a con, and that Neal was really dead.”

Elizabeth took a sip of her wine and seemed to take a few seconds to absorb this. “Mozzie insisted it wasn’t a conspiracy? Mozzie?”

Peter smiled. “He sure did.”

Elizabeth set her glass on the coffee table and nodded. “I’d say that is definitely suspicious.”

Elizabeth began looking over the information spread across the coffee table. Peter gave her time, but it only took a couple of minutes before Elizabeth turned back to him and said, “Okay, I’m in. Neal is still alive. How are we going to find him?”

Peter shook his head. “That’s the tricky part. I don’t want to use FBI resources on this. Neal disappeared before he had technically been granted his freedom, and the government has screwed him over on that more than once. I don’t want to bring the Bureau in on this unless I have to.”

“Unless you have to?”

Peter sighed. “I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing, but he’s Neal. I have to face the possibility that he might not leave me with any other choice.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No. No, if that’s what you think you’re going to find, then maybe we shouldn’t even start looking at all.”

“I can’t just let him--”

Elizabeth interrupted him, “Oh, yes you can. You are not a field agent anymore, and this isn’t an official investigation. If you find Neal doing something he shouldn’t, and you arrest him for it, I have no doubt that Neal would tell you that he understands, that you have every right. He wouldn’t hold a grudge. But I think it would kill *you* if you had to be the one to lock him up again.”

Peter tried to respond but Elizabeth apparently wasn’t finished yet. “If some other agent catches Neal doing something…”

“Neal-like?” Peter suggested.

Elizabeth laughed and nodded. “Yeah, okay, something Neal-like… well, then that’s on Neal. But don’t put yourself in the position where you have to lock up your best friend, when nobody else is even looking for him.”

Peter wasn’t convinced, but he decided to put off any decisions about that until some other time. “Let’s just start with finding him, and worry about the rest of it later.”

Apparently that was a compromise Elizabeth was willing to live with. “Okay, so where do we start?”

Peter shook his head. He started moving around some of the papers on the table, but he wasn’t really looking at any of them. “In the past, it was always about figuring out who were the people Neal cares about. I found him twice because of Kate, and when he ran to Cape Verde, I found him because of Ellen. But this time, I don’t even know where to start.”

Elizabeth reached for a postcard sized picture of Raphael’s Saint George and the Dragon that was half-buried under the other papers on the table and picked it up. “Sara, maybe? Do you think he’d try to contact her?”

Peter shook his head again. “I really don’t. I mean, ordinarily, that would be somewhere near the top of my list of places to start looking. But if Neal did all this to make sure the Panthers don’t go after the people he cares about…”

Elizabeth nodded. “The last thing he’d do is go anywhere near Sara.”

Peter thought about it for a moment, then nodded his head once. “I guess we have to start with this.” He opened up another box and pulled out a newspaper with a headline article about a security upgrade at the Louvre.

“Oh, honey. This is why you were afraid you’d have to bring him in.”

“The Louvre announcing that they have a new, unbeatable security system? For Neal, that might be like catnip. He’s always loved a challenge. It was always more about that than about the things he took or the money.” 

Elizabeth half-smiled. “He’s playing chess.”

Peter looked back up at Elizabeth, as always, impressed by how quick her mind was. “Out-thinking his opponent, seeing ten moves into the future, proving he can do the impossible. Yeah, that’s our Neal.”

“But, hon, this article is nearly a year old, and I haven’t heard anything about a theft at the Louvre. I know the art world. If the Louvre had lost a painting, I would have heard something. Gossip, a rumor, something.”

Peter nodded. “Maybe, maybe… do you know anyone at the Louvre, hon? Maybe you could ask a few questions, find out if anything unusual has happened there lately, something that never made it into any official reports?”

“I can make a few calls. I’m sure someone I know has a friend at the Louvre.”

“That would be great. It’s not a lot, but it’s a place to start.”

 

**************

 

Two days later, Peter walked through the front door and barely finished saying “Hi hon,” before Elizabeth dragged him over to the dining room table, saying, “Have I got a story for you.”

Peter took in the gleam in Elizabeth’s eyes and knew. “You found out something about Neal.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Nothing definitive, but this story… it has to be.”

Peter grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down at the table. “Okay, tell me.”

“Did I ever mention my friend Edmond from art school?”

“The name rings a a bell, sure.”

“Well, his boyfriend, Rene, works at the Louvre. About six months ago, a man came in carrying a portfolio, walked up to the curator and told him that their multi-million Euro security upgrade was a joke. The curator, of course, laughed him off, but this guy insisted that he could walk right in, walk out with one of their paintings, and they’d never even know it was gone.”

The anger and disappointment Peter felt over something Neal had done was all too familiar. “Son of a bitch. He did it, didn’t he? He robbed the Louvre! I can’t just let him get away with that, El.”

“Wait! Before you get yourself all bent out of shape, let me finish the story.”

Peter took a sip of his beer to help swallow the lump that was forming in his throat before gesturing to Elizabeth to continue.

“Okay, so this guy, he opens up his portfolio and hands the curator one of Van Gogh’s sunflower paintings. A painting that was still hanging on their walls. Or so they thought. The guy stayed there and waited for the couple of hours it took for the authenticators to determine that it was the real painting, and the one they had hanging on their wall was a forgery. The best damned forgery any of them had ever seen. When the curator asked why they shouldn’t have him arrested, this guy said he was going to tell them everything they needed to do to make sure nothing like that happened again, on the condition that they paid him in cash, didn’t ask for his name, and kept the story out of the papers.”

“Son of a bitch,” Peter said again, although in a much different tone of voice this time. “That has got to be him. So, no name, huh? Did you get a description, at least?”

“According to Rene, six feet tall, brown hair, blue eyes, impeccably tailored suit. And," Elizabeth smiled, "a hat.”

“That sounds about right.”

“Sure does.”

Peter took hold of Elizabeth’s hand and squeezed. “Paris. It’s a big city and we don’t even have a name. This still won’t be easy.”

Elizabeth squeezed Peter’s hand in response. “He could have been anywhere in the world, and we narrowed it down to one city."

"Assuming he's still anywhere near there."

"Hey, honey, if anyone can find him, it’s you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mentions of Neal's previously faking his death, the $500 for a death certificate, and the great white shark are all from episode 4x10, Vested Interest.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter talks to Mozzie about Neal

“Hey diddle, diddle, the lady’s in the middle. Find the queen and you win the prize.”

Peter had passed by Washington Square Park hoping he’d run into Mozzie again, but he was still more than a little surprised to find him there.

“How’s it going, Winters?” Peter asked, flashing his badge and smiling as all Mozzie’s marks scattered.

“You’re killing me here, Suit!” Mozzie gestured to the empty space around his table. “What did you have to go and do that for!”

Peter shrugged. “I was just hoping for another conversation about an old friend. But I’ve gotta say, I’m kind of surprised to find you here.”

Mozzie put on what Peter was sure was his best “innocent” face -- a look that fell far short of being convincing -- and said, “I can’t imagine where else you think I would go!”

“Oh, I don’t know… Paris, maybe?”

“Paris is a great city,” Mozzie nodded.

“Mozzie,” Peter nearly growled.

Mozzie’s expression changed to something much more believably innocent, or at least as innocent as Mozzie ever could be. “So, you finally figured it out, huh?”

For a moment, Peter felt a lump forming in his throat and his eyes began to get a little damp. Until now, it had all been speculation, just following his gut. He’d already been 99% sure, but this was confirmation. Neal really was still alive. Peter let out a big sigh and ran his hand across his eyes before returning his attention to Mozzie. “When did you? Did you know that day in the hospital?”

Mozzie made a display at looking at the crowd surrounding them before turning back to Peter and saying, “Not here.”

Peter nodded, that was probably a good call. He shook a finger at Mozzie and said, “My house. 6:30. Don’t even think about being so much as one minute late.”

Mozzie nodded. “I’ll be there.”

*************

When Peter got home at a quarter after six, Mozzie was already there, regaling his son with a story about a shining white knight recovering a priceless work of art, leaving a nearly perfect fake in its place, then parachuting off the top of a tall building, evading the evil trolls who were trying to catch him.

Peter closed the door behind him. “I’ll be damned, he actually did it.”

“Hi hon,” Elizabeth said, and came over to give him a quick kiss. “Did what?”

“I asked Neal how he swapped out the Degas. He told me he base jumped off the building, but I assumed he was messing with me.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I don’t know why, it sounds exactly like the sort of thing Neal would do.”

“Boneheaded? Reckless? Life threatening?”

“A challenge.”

Peter grudgingly acknowledged that his wife had a point. “I swear, when we do find him, I’m not sure if I’m going to hug him or kill him.”

Elizabeth laughed again and gave Peter another quick kiss. “It’s time for Neal’s nap.” She picked her son up from his seat and headed towards the stairs. “You two boys play nice, now.”

Peter turned back to Mozzie and said, “Talk.”

“I’ll talk, but this is going to be a long story, and I’m feeling a bit parched,” Mozzie said, glancing over at the $100 bottle of chardonnay El had left on the kitchen counter.

Peter went to the refrigerator, pulled out two bottles of beer and handed one to Mozzie.

From the way Mozzie looked at the bottle, Peter might have thought someone had just given him a bottle of mud. “You know, Suit, I’m not really a beer kind of guy.”

Peter sat down across from him. “You’ll drink it and you’ll like it,” he said, taking a swig of his beer. “Now talk.”

Mozzie took a small sip of his own beer, then looked at it like something that was unpleasant, but maybe not as unpleasant as he’d been expecting. “Neal didn’t tell me anything beforehand. That day at the hospital, I saw what you saw, and I believed what you believed. Then a few days later, I stopped by Thursday --”

“So, obviously this was on a Wednesday, right?” Peter was always amused at the way Mozzie named his safe houses after the days of the week, but never the same days he visited those houses.

“Saturday, actually,” Mozzie replied.

“So, what happened?”

“I helped him get some cash and a passport and got him on a flight out of the country.”

“I’m guessing there’s more to that story,” Peter said.

Mozzie shrugged, “There might be, but that’s all you’re getting, Suit. Except this. When I told you I was in stage four -- depression -- I wasn’t lying. The Neal I knew, my friend and partner in crime, is gone. I really have lost him, probably forever.”

Peter sighed and shook his head. Dealing with Mozzie was always an exercise in pulling teeth. He took out his badge and put it on the table. “Look, right now, I’m not a suit, I’m just his friend. Please just tell me what you know.”

Mozzie looked at him skeptically for a few moments, but then he began to tell his story.

************

One Year Earlier

Mozzie looked in every direction, making sure nobody was watching him, before entering the door to his third-favorite safehouse.

He’d barely closed the door behind him when the light turned on.

He spun around and noticed the figure in the corner of the room, his face hidden in the shadows.

“Who are you? What do you want? You should be warned, I know jiu jitsu!”

“Calm down,” the figure said, stepping forward into the light. “It’s just me, Mozz.”

Mozzie didn’t often find himself speechless, but for a moment words escaped him. “Neal?!?! How? How is this…? You were d--” And then, after a brief pause, a sharp intake of breath followed by, “I KNEW IT!”

Neal smiled. “Yeah, I figured you would.” Then, after a brief pause, “Peter?”

“The Suit doesn’t have a clue. He’s pretty torn up about it.”

Neal sighed. “I hate to put him through this, but I don’t see any other way.”

Mozzie nodded knowingly, “Because no matter how good a contract they signed, the FBI was never going to let you go.”

“No, Mozz. Because I screwed over the Pink Panthers. As long as I’m alive, there’s a price on my head. And if I go on the run, everyone I care about is in danger.”

Mozzie nodded again, “Or that.”

“With Neal Caffrey dead, the Panthers won’t have any reason to go after anyone on my account. Peter, Elizabeth, and the baby will be safe.”

“So, what’s the plan?”

“I need to get out of the country. I need a passport. And cash.”

“Well, we’ve certainly got plenty of cash. The passports will take a few days, and then we--”

“Not we, Mozz, I’m going alone.”

Mozzie was surprised. “But we always said that if we ran, we’d run together.”

“Not this time. I’ve got to do this by myself.”

“But why?”

“When I first asked Peter about getting the rest of my sentence dropped, he asked me if I thought I could go straight. I told him yes -- one word, no loopholes. I made him a promise, and I plan to try to keep it. You know how much your friendship means to me, it always has and it always will, but I know you too well, and I know myself… if you come with me, I’ll never be able to keep my promise.”

“Come on, Neal! Guys like us don’t live by those kinds of rules!”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about, Mozzie! It’s not just that you don’t believe I can go straight, it’s that you don’t even understand why I’d want to try. Peter’s the only person in this world who ever believed it was even possible for me to be good. I don’t want to let him down, even if he never knows it.”

***********

Peter took a sip of his beer and put the bottle down on the table. “He really said that? That he didn’t want to let me down?”

“Yes, he did.”

“So where do stealing $23 million dollars and skipping the country on a forged passport fall into this ‘not letting me down’ plan of his?”

“Ah!” Mozzie exclaimed, excitedly. “He promised he’d go straight once he was free! Those things all happened--”

“Before he was free,” Peter interrupted. He shook his head, almost laughing to himself at Neal’s habit of keeping to the letter of his word, if only just barely. He turned his attention back to Mozzie. “But he did take the money.”

“I admit nothing,” Mozzie replied. “But I will say, if you’ve got people like the Panthers gunning for your head, you can’t vanish without a lot of cash.”

Peter couldn’t deny that Mozzie was right about that. And as much as he hated compromising his principles, he had to admit that the $23 million that had gone missing from the Panther job was a small price to pay for knowing Neal was alive somewhere in the world and, hopefully, safe.

“Okay, Mozzie, I’m going to pretend I don’t know anything about the money. But you’ve got to help me out. I know you have some way of getting in touch with him. You've got to tell me how I can find him.”

“No can do, Suit. I promised Neal that I’d never tell anyone how to find him.”

Peter put his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Come on, Mozzie! I’m trying to help him! You’ve got to give me something.”

Mozzie took another tentative sip of his beer, and Peter could nearly see the gears turning in his head, as he seemed to consider what he could say without breaking his promise to Neal.

“You know, Suit, Neal has always had a habit of getting himself into and out of tight spots. There were plenty of times I worried he wouldn’t be able to get out of them. I used to tell him that, one of these days, he was going to fly too high and burn his wings.” Mozzie got up from the table and headed towards the front door. Just before leaving, he turned back around and said, “I’m not surprised he decided on Paris. Neal always loved Paris. Said it made him feel like a kid again.”

With that cryptic comment, Mozzie went out the door and closed it behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diana helps with the search

“So, Boss, what brings you to DC?” Diana sat down across from Peter and took a sip of her coffee.

Peter smiled. “You know, you don’t actually work for me anymore, Diana.”

Diana smiled and shrugged. No matter who she worked for, she’d always think of Peter as her boss. “I know I told you I’d be happy to help anytime, but I wasn’t expecting an in-person visit just a couple weeks after I left.”

“There’s something I need your help with. But before you agree to help me, this has to be kept out of any official channels.”

“Sure, anything for you. What’s up?”

“There’s someone I’m trying to find, but I don’t want anyone else to find him, or even to know that I’m looking. Especially not anyone in the government.”

“Well, that’s definitely piqued my interest. What’s going on?”

“Okay, you’ve got to hear me out before you start thinking I’m crazy, but--” Before Peter could finish, a couple of other FBI agents entered the coffee shop. Peter looked over at them for a few seconds before turning back to Diana and saying, “You know the old saying about the devil’s greatest trick?”

Diana wasn’t sure where Peter was going with this, but she understood immediately -- as long as there were fellow agents here, they were going to have to speak in some kind of code for this conversation. “Sure, I’ve heard that saying. The devil’s greatest trick was convincing the world he didn’t exist.”

“Right. That’s the one.” Peter took a sip of his coffee, glanced over at the agents on the other side of the room and continued, “Just how clever a con artist do you think a guy would have to be to pull off a trick like that?”

“To convince people he didn’t exist?”

“Sure, that… or maybe to convince them that he’d died, right in front of them.”

It only took a couple of seconds for the pieces to click into place in Diana’s mind. “Wait, you think that Ca--”

Peter held up his hand and glanced over at the other agents.

Diana shook her head slightly, her mind reeling at the possibility. “I can definitely think of one con artist who I would totally believe could have pulled off a trick like that.” She leaned forward in her seat, looking Peter intently in the eyes before continuing? “But why would he?”

Peter slid a file across the table to her and took another sip of his coffee.

Diana began to page through the newspaper articles inside -- over a dozen different stories about the ways the Pink Panthers dealt with people who’d betrayed them or gotten in their way.

By the time she was done reading, they were alone in the coffee shop again. “Boss,” she said, shaking her head in wonder.

“I found those clipping in a storage locker Neal had rented shortly before… well, you know.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“The last time he spoke with El, he promised her he’d do anything he had to do to make sure I was safe and that I’d come home to her and the baby.”

“So he stages his death to keep the Panthers from hurting the people he cares about,” Diana nodded. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Despite Neal’s… well… let’s say sticky fingers and precarious relationship with the truth, it’s always been obvious that he’d do anything for you and Elizabeth.”

Diana took Peter’s frown to mean that he wasn’t sure he agreed.

“Come on, Peter, the guy gave up a two and a half million dollar ring for you, not to mention a billion dollar treasure. You and Elizabeth are probably the closest thing Neal has ever had to a family. He’d do anything for you, except stay on the straight and narrow.”

Peter picked up a coffee stirrer and began twisting it between his fingers. “You don’t think he could?”

“Could?” Diana asked.

“Go straight. Apparently, he told Mozzie he wanted to try. Said Mozzie couldn’t come with him when he ran because he knew he wouldn’t be able to do it if Mozzie was always around.”

Diana thought about it for a moment before responding. “I don’t know. I’ve read his files. Not just ours, but the stuff we found in Rebecca’s apartment, too. When life teaches you by the age of ten that the only way you can be sure you’ll have dinner each night is if you steal food from the grocery store and teach yourself to cook… that the only keys to survival are lying, cheating, and stealing… I think that kind of hard wiring can be really hard to overcome.”

Peter’s slow nod was more one of someone considering her response than agreeing with it.

Diana continued. “The guy’s got a big heart, and he’d do anything for the people he cares about. And if he says he wants to go straight, it means a lot that he wants to try. But a childhood like he had… those are some hard lessons to unlearn. Especially for someone as good at breaking the rules and getting away with it as Caffrey always has been.”

Peter didn’t respond immediately, he just shrugged and shook his head.

“I’m guessing you have a little more faith in him.”

Peter shrugged again. “I think Neal is the smartest guy I’ve ever known. I think he can do anything he sets his mind to. Or he could, if he had people in his life who believe in him. But out there on his own, no family, no friends, not even his own name to remind him of the life he left behind and the people who love him… I think that might make it hard for him to keep caring enough to try. The longer he’s out there on his own, the harder it will be for him to resist falling back to his old ways.”

Diana could definitely agree with that. “So the plan is to try and find him before that happens.”

“You’ve got it.”

“And you have a place for me to start?”

“Paris. And a couple of clues Mozzie gave me. He wouldn’t say much, but he did hint that we should look for something related to the myth of Icarus. He also said Paris made Neal feel like a kid again.”

“Okay, I'm on it. I’ll let you know what I find.”

**********

A couple of weeks later, the phone rang at 2:30 on a Saturday morning. Peter was a little groggy when he reached for it, but he woke up quickly when he heard the voice on the other end.

“I think I found him, Boss.”

Peter got out of bed quickly. Grabbing his phone, he left the bedroom and headed down the stairs. “What did you find?”

“Not over the phone. I’m on my way to you -- I just crossed over the Verrazano, I’ll be at your house in a few minutes.”

Peter wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He sat down on the sofa only to stand up again after a few seconds and begin pacing across the floor.

“Hey, hon, is everything okay?” Elizabeth said, coming down the stairs.

Peter glanced towards the front door, then back at his wife. “Diana is going to be here any minute. She thinks she found something on Neal.”

Elizabeth gasped and put one hand to her chest, a smile breaking out across her face. “I’ll make coffee,” she said, heading into the kitchen.

The coffee was ready just when Diana arrived. After briefly exchanging greetings, they all sat down at the table together.

“I know my wife makes fantastic coffee, but I’m guessing you didn’t leave Theo with your parents and make the four hour drive just to have a cup of it at 3 in the morning.”

Diana smiled. “I found a restaurant in Paris, opened about nine months ago, and it’s been getting rave reviews. The head chef has been doing a great job keeping his face out of the papers, refuses to meet with the diners who want to give him their compliments. It was hard to even get a name for him, without digging through the ownership records of half a dozen holding companies.” She slid a file across the table to Peter. “The place is called ‘Chute d’Icare.’”

Peter reached for the file. “Fall of Icarus. But a restaurant, though? Can you really see Neal as a chef?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Diana said, at the same moment Elizabeth insisted, “Absolutely.”

“Didn’t he ever cook for you?” Diana asked.

Peter shrugged. “Yeah, I guess he knows his way around the kitchen.”

“Oh, honey,” Elizabeth said. “I know gourmet food isn’t your thing, but believe me, Neal is a real artist in the kitchen. He might even be better than me.”

Diana nodded, “Once, when we were in the van together, he brought along this halibut with a mango chutney… it may be the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.”

“Okay, so maybe it is him, Peter said. “But if you’re so sure you made the drive all the way up here, I’m guessing you’re going on more than just the Icarus connection and the fact that the chef is reclusive.”

“Check out the name,” Diana said, turning to the last page in the file.

It took only a second for Peter to find it. The owner’s name: Daniel Mitchell.

“You did say Paris made him feel like a kid again.”

Peter agreed, “So he’s going by Daniel, but I wonder where Mitchell came from.”

Elizabeth smiled and patted Peter on the arm. “Well, honey, he did tell me I was his family.”

Peter turned to his wife and smiled. “He’s using your maiden name.”

“I think that answers another question, too.”

“What’s that, hon?” Peter frowned.

“We knew he was hiding from the Panthers, but we didn’t know if he was hiding from you, too.”

Diana caught on quickly. “Yeah, this is Neal, this is probably as close as he could get to laying out a trail of breadcrumbs for you.”

Peter looked back down at the file and smiled. “He wanted me to be able to find him.”


	5. Chapter 5

“There’s something else, too, Boss,” Diana said. “I can’t be 100% sure it’s connected, but my gut is telling me it has to be.”

“What have you got,” Peter asked, as he went over to the kitchen to refill his coffee cup.

“Yes, thanks,” Diana said, when Peter silently lifted the coffee pot to her. Then, as he began to pour, she began to explain. “In the past year, a couple of stolen paintings have been recovered with almost no publicity attached. Normally, recovery of a $150 million dollar Pollock or a $100 million Cézanne would be front page news all over the world, but for these, almost nothing, just small mentions buried in the middle of the paper. I only found the stories because, for the Pollack, a couple of days before the recovery was reported, a Madame Rochelle LaPointe filed a police report claiming the painting had been stolen from her home. Her husband called the police the next day and insisted it was a big misunderstanding, they never owned a Pollock.”

Elizabeth laughed, “She never knew it was stolen in the first place!”

“That’s interesting,” Peter agreed, “But what makes you think there’s a connection to Neal?”

Diana leaned forward before continuing, “Both paintings were recovered in Paris, but the recovery is attributed to the London offices of Sterling Bosch.”

“I’ll be damned,” Peter said. He took a sip of his coffee before turning to Elizabeth. “You were right, El, I should have checked if he’d contacted Sara. I just assumed, if he did all this to protect the people he cares about, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to contact her. But I’m the one who wrote the damned playbook on Finding Neal Caffrey. I know better than anyone that Rule Number One is always start with the girl.”

Peter took out his phone and began to scroll through the contacts.

“Who are you calling at 4AM?” Elizabeth asked.

Peter smiled. “It’s 9AM in London,” he said, and went out onto the patio to make his call.

********

“Peter! It’s nice to hear from you. How are you? How’s Elizabeth?”

“We’re doing great, Sara,” Peter replied. “In fact, we’ve been talking about taking a trip to Paris, wanted to know if you could recommend any good restaurants.”

The pause before Sara answered was just a little too long -- it told Peter all he needed to know.

“Restaurants? In Paris? I’m sure I could--”

Peter interrupted, “I heard that a mutual friend opened a restaurant in Paris. I was wondering if you knew anything about that.”

Sara hesitated again before saying, “Actually, I do.”

“Dammit, Sara, how could you not tell us? For a year, we thought--”

“I know!” Sara said. “I know, and I’m sorry. But he asked me not to. He told me he was putting his life in my hands by contacting me, and that if I said anything to anyone, I would be putting not just his life at risk, but everyone he cares about.”

Peter sighed. “So why did he risk it? Why contact you?”

“Because he knew what I went through with my sister Emily. He called me last year. Told me that you were close to taking down some really powerful criminals, but that it was going to be dangerous. He told me the man in charge had already killed at least one person he suspected of betraying him. He wasn’t sure if he’d make it out alive, but he told me that if I heard reports of his death, I shouldn’t necessarily believe them. He said he wasn’t sure when he’d be able to contact me again, but if he did make it out alive, he’d find some way of letting me know he was okay.”

“And he did?” Peter asked.

“About two weeks after you called me and told me what had happened, a package was delivered by courier to my office. It was a Matisse one of my clients lost about five years ago. There was nothing on the box to indicate who sent it. But inside, there was an unsigned postcard -- Raphael’s Saint George and the Dragon. Who else could have sent it?”

Peter laughed, “That does sound like something he’d do.”

“Anyway, I’ve gotten close to a dozen other similar packages in the past year, always with something I’d been looking for and hadn’t recovered yet, always with that same unsigned postcard inside.”

Peter sighed, “I can’t even pretend to be surprised.”

“What do you mean?” Sara asked.

“He promised me, if he got the anklet off, he was going to try to go straight. But I should have known he’d need to find some way to scratch that itch. The thrill of pulling off some stunt that nobody else could… it’s just too much of a rush for him to give it up entirely.”

“He’s trying to keep his promise, Peter. Maybe he’s operating in a bit of a grey arey, but as far as I can tell, he’s only taking things that were acquired illegally in the first place, and he’s not trying to profit off of it.”

“He’s going to get himself killed, or caught. Which, with what he did to the Panthers, probably means the same thing. How can you be okay with this, Sara?”

Sara hesitated before answering, then said, “Because I know who he is. I’ve always known, even when I hated him for it. And I care about him too much to expect him to try to be someone he’s not.”

Peter wasn’t sure he agreed. A part of him thought that he’d happily deny Neal any future chance at getting his fix if it meant his friend was alive and safe, but he couldn’t really argue with what Sara had said, either. He decided to shift the conversation in another direction. “Have you had any other contact with him, besides the packages? Have you seen him?”

“I haven’t seen him, but I did get a flyer in the mail about ten months ago, inviting me to the grand opening of a restaurant called Chute d’Icare in Paris, along with a handwritten note that said ‘Connie and Conrad wish they could see you,’” Sara laughed.

“Connie and Conrad?” Peter asked.

“Just a little fantasy we whipped up on the 103rd floor of the Empire State Building, dreaming of another time, another place, when things might have worked out differently for us. But I knew the note was from him. Those names wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else. Besides, the note was in my own handwriting, so who else could have sent it?”

“But you didn’t go to the opening?”

“No,” Sara replied. “It was too dangerous. And I’m sure he thought so, too. He’s always so careful with his words. If he’d wanted me to be there, he would have said they wanted to see me, or they invited me to join them. But wish? It’s too wistful. He was trying to tell me it was something he wanted, but knew he couldn’t have.”

Peter couldn’t deny that Sara had a point. After exchanging promises to keep in touch and share information, he ended his call and went back inside.

“Okay,” he said, rejoining Elizabeth and Diana at the dining room table. “It’s definitely him. But it’s still too dangerous to just go and get him. Now we have to figure out a way to bring him home without getting him killed for real.”


	6. Chapter 6

The moment Peter stepped off the elevator onto the 21st floor the following Monday morning, it was obvious something big was going down. There was way more activity than usual, and the phones were ringing off the hook. Almost as soon as he walked through the glass doors, Jones rushed over, announcing, “We’ve got a serious problem.”

“What’s going on?” Peter asked.

“Woodford pulled a Keller on the way to Lewisburg last night.”

“They lost him?”

“They shipped him out at midnight. The bus should have arrived at Lewisburg by 6AM. Instead, they found the bus by the side of the road, four dead guards inside.”

“And Woodford?”

“No sign of him anywhere, he’s completely in the wind.”

“Dammit,” Peter said. He stopped at the coffee station to pour himself the first of what he knew would be many cups of coffee before this was over.

“The good news,” Jones said, “is that we caught Woodford red-handed with the cash. You never needed to testify at his trial, so he doesn’t know you were one of the moles working against him.”

Peter could tell from Jones’s voice that there was more. “And the bad news?”

Jones sighed. “Woodford doesn’t care. Riots broke out last night at Leavenworth, Atwater, and McCreary, leaving one dead inmate at each location. Any guesses as to who?”

Peter didn’t need any guesses. “The three remaining members of the Panthers?”

“The three remaining members of the Panthers,” Jones nodded. “He’s cleaning house. With Caffrey and Keller both dead, you’re the only one left. He’ll be coming for you.”

Peter silently gestured for Jones to follow him to his office. Once the door was closed behind them, Peter turned and said, “I’m not the only one left, Clinton.”

Jones frowned, “Who am I missing?”

Peter sat at his desk and ran his hands across his face before turning back to Jones. “I’ve recently discovered that reports of Neal’s death were somewhat exaggerated.”

Jones sat down across from him, a stunned expression on his face. “Caffrey’s alive?”

Peter nodded.

“How?”

Peter briefly outlined everything, starting with the contents of the storage locker and ending with the incident at the Louvre, a handful of recovered paintings, and his conversation with Sara.

Clinton just took it all in and shook his head. “You want to know the most surprising thing about this?”

Peter raised his eyebrows in question.

“The fact that I’m surprised at all. Only Caffrey.”

Peter smiled and nodded his head in agreement.

“So what’s the plan?” Jones asked.

“Can you book me on the first available flight to Paris? I’ve got to get to Neal before Woodford does.”

********

Nathalie took the business card the man was offering and agreed to deliver it to her boss. She didn’t think there was any point to it -- Chef Mitchell didn’t see customers -- but she couldn’t think of a good reason to not deliver a business card. But she already knew what would happen. It would be simple enough -- she’d hand Chef the business card, he’d say ‘no’ and then she’d offer her apologies to the customer.

“Chef, one of our diners would like to offer his compliments.”

Chef smiled. “I always love to hear that -- please give the customer my thanks.”

“He said he wants to compliment you in person.”

“You know I don’t meet the customers,” Chef said, shaking his head.

“Yes, Chef, I told him that,” Nathalie said, “but he insisted that I give you his business card and ask you to reconsider.” She handed the card to Chef.

Chef took the card and smiled. Really smiled. Until that moment, Nathalie would have told anyone who asked that Chef was a friendly and charming man who smiled and laughed all the time, but this was something different. In fact, it occurred to her that she’d never actually seen him smile before at all. Then Chef turned the card over and started laughing, and she was just as convinced that she’d never actually heard Chef laugh before, either.

“Philippe,” Chef called out to his sous chef, “I’m putting you in charge for the rest of the night. Nathalie, please show Agent Burke how to get to my apartments.”

Chef took off his apron and toque and traded them for the suit jacket and fedora he nearly always wore when he wasn’t working before heading to his apartments on the second floor of the building.

Nathalie and Philippe exchanged puzzled looks at this unusual behavior and Philippe asked, “What was so funny on that card?”

“I have no idea,” Nathalie insisted.

“Well, what did it say?”

Nathalie shook her head and said, “I guess this makes me four and 0.”


	7. Chapter 7

Neal grabbed a six-pack of beer from the restaurant before heading upstairs to his apartment. It wasn’t Peter’s favorite beer -- Neal would never serve anything quite that low-end in his restaurant -- but he was sure Peter would appreciate it nonetheless.

Neal had just put the beer in his refrigerator when the knock came at the door. He nearly sprinted to the door, a big smile on his face.

There might be a handful of people who knew Neal extraordinarily well who would have detected the split second of panic on Neal’s face when he opened the door to find his visitor wasn’t the man he’d been expecting. The panic was instantly replaced with a carefully cultivated veneer of calm nonchalance, as he quickly ran through his memory, trying to remember where he’d seen the man before. It only took a couple of seconds. Gaines. Curtis Hagan’s “lawyer” back when he and Peter had first gone after the Dutchman, a man who had been standing in the warehouse, just a few feet away from them, when Peter had jokingly insisted that they were now three and 0.

“You’re a hard man to find, Mr. Caffrey,” Gaines said.

Neal casually took Peter’s business card out of his pocket and glanced at the back again. He wanted to kick himself. He’d been careless. If he hadn’t been so happy at the thought of seeing Peter again, he would have noticed the hesitation marks in the handwriting. The note on the card was a forgery.

He held the card up, a wry smile on his face, and said, “I’m guessing this was from you.”

Gaines nodded once in acknowledgement before stepping forward and forcing his way into the apartment. “My client wanted me to meet with you, and I thought you’d be more likely to accept an appointment with Agent Burke than with myself.”

“Client?” Neal asked calmly, his mind considering and rejecting 100 different possible ways of escaping the situation or sending out a distress signal. “Last I checked, Hagen was dead.”

“One might say the same for you, Mr. Caffrey,” Gaines replied. “But I’m not talking about Curtis Hagan. A man in my profession can have many clients. The client I’m referring to is Alan Woodford.”

Neal was hardly surprised. He’d been expecting this day from the moment he’d agreed to help take down the Panthers. Still, he knew his best chance of survival was to keep Gaines talking. “Woodford sent you here to kill me? I’m a little insulted. I would like to think I earned the personal touch from him.”

“You mistake me,” Gaines insisted. “Woodford doesn’t want you dead. Not yet. First, there’s the small matter of the half a billion dollars you owe him.”

“Oh, is that all?” Neal asked. He began to pat the various pockets in his slacks and jacket and said, “I don’t think I have that much on me at the moment, so you might have to come back some other time.”

Gaines expression made it clear he wasn’t amused. “My client is well aware you won’t be able to deliver that much to him in cash. So, he’s come up with an alternative form of payment.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a flyer for the Louvre.

“Ah,” Neal said, taking the flyer. “Select the right paintings, and I could probably pay Woodford back with less than a dozen of them.”

Gaines smiled. “He said you’d catch on quickly.”

“You know, it won’t be easy. They upgraded their security.”

“We’re well aware of the millions of euros they paid for a security upgrade last year.” Gaines took a few steps over to the living room area and sat down. “We’re also aware of the far superior security upgrade they got for only ten thousand euros six months ago.”

Neal masked his surprise with an expression designed to convey someone pretending to be embarrassed while secretly being pleased with himself. “You heard about that one, did you?”

“You can’t expect us to believe you didn’t leave yourself a backdoor.”

Neal shrugged, “What can I say, you never know when a rainy day might come along. I might find myself needing a little extra cash to buy a new umbrella.”

Gaines leaned back in his seat. “I think we understand each other, Mr. Caffrey.”

Neal took a few steps in the direction of the kitchen before turning and, in as blasé a voice as he could manage, said, “Just to be clear. I steal a few paintings from the Louvre, deliver them to Woodford, and that’s when he’s planning to kill me.”

“More or less,” Gaines agreed.

“If I’m dead either way, what exactly is my incentive?” Neal asked.

Gaines got up, walked over to Neal and plucked the business card Neal was still holding from his fingers and held it up. “Mr. Woodford has no interest in killing a federal agent. An officer of the law, simply doing his job -- Mr. Woodford respects that. You, on the other hand? You looked him in the eye and told him the only thing worse than a mole was a rat, only to turn out to be both of those things yourself. That is not the sort of thing Mr. Woodford can let go unpunished. The only real question you need to consider is whether you die, or whether your friend dies along with you.” Gaines sat back down and dropped the business card onto the glass coffee table in front of him.

Seeing the card on the table gave Neal an idea. As distress signals went, it was a long shot, but there weren’t a lot of options open to him and he’d always made out pretty well working with what he had.

“Okay, you got me. Let’s make a plan.” He pulled open a drawer and took out a pen and a pad of paper, then went over to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. He sat down across from Gaines and took a swig of the beer. “You’ll excuse me for not offering you one,” he said, holding up the beer, “But I don’t like you.” Then Neal began making a list of what he would need to pull off the heist Woodford was demanding.


	8. Chapter 8

Peter had just stepped out of the taxi into the mid-afternoon sunlight when his phone rang. He glanced at the display before answering, “Hey, Jones, what’s up.”

“The Police Nationale in Paris is trying to get a hold of you -- they found your business card at a potential crime scene.”

Peter got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach; all he could do is hope he wasn’t too late. “Please tell me the crime scene isn’t at the Chute d’Icare restaurant,” looking up at the sign painted on the window of the building in front of him.

“The apartments above it, actually,” Jones acknowledged.

“Dammit,” Peter said, hanging up his phone and running inside.

In a minute, Peter found himself standing inside what he could only assume was Neal’s living room. His first clues were the nine or ten copies of some of the greatest paintings in history stacked up against one wall and a halfway completed, nearly flawless copy of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus on the easel.

But, other than that, it wasn’t obvious why the apartment was considered a crime scene. Peter took a big sigh of relief that there was no sign of a dead body anywhere.

He took in the scene around him -- several Paris police officers, a couple of men in suits that screamed out “Interpol” to him, and a young man who didn’t seem like he belonged, standing off the the side, looking distressed.

Peter started by introducing himself to a man named Paget, the Interpol agent who seemed to be in charge. In a few short minutes, the story began to emerge.

Philippe, the distressed looking young man standing off to the side, was the sous chef in the restaurant. He’d arrived for work at 10AM to discover Chef Mitchell wasn’t there, which was unusual. Chef was never late. By 10:30, he’d grown concerned and come upstairs, only to discover the door unlocked and partially open. Philippe was convinced that Chef would never, under any circumstances, leave his apartment door unlocked, let alone open, so he’d called the police.

One of the police officers made a comment about the forgeries, and Philippe was quick to correct him. “Those aren’t forgeries, they’re reproductions. Chef was very insistent that it’s only a forgery if you intend to pass it off to someone as the original. He only does these for himself. He says it--”

“Calms his nerves?” Peter interrupted.

Philippe turned to him with a surprised look on his face. “Exactly.”

Peter turned back to Paget. “But I’m guessing these painting aren't the reason you’re here. And missing persons cases just a few hours old aren’t exactly part of Interpol’s usual caseload.”

Paget smiled. “When the local police dusted for prints, they found something quite unexpected. The place is covered with fingerprints for a man who’s been dead for a year. Internationally notorious art thief -- among other things -- Neal Caffrey. Apparently, he’s not quite as dead as we’d been lead to believe. I also understand that you know this man quite well, Agent Burke.”

“I do,” Peter nodded. “I know Neal very well.”

“So it probably won’t come as any surprise to you,” Paget continued, “That it appears he’s planning to rob the Louvre.”

Peter felt a little sick. Because, no, it wouldn’t come as a surprise to him, not entirely. Still, he didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t want to believe that Neal could have fallen so completely off the wagon just at the moment Peter was so close to finding a way to bring him home. He didn’t want to believe it, but he was still Peter Burke, FBI Agent, and he had to follow the clues, wherever they might lead. He turned back to Paget and asked, “You have evidence of this?”

Paget called over to one of his associates, who handed him a notepad. “We found this on the coffee table,” he said, handing the notepad to Peter.

The first page of the notepad had been removed, but with the fingerprint powder that had been applied to the second page, it was easy to make out what had been written there. It was a list of just the kind of supplies and equipment someone like Neal would need to break through a high end security system, followed by a list of several of the most valuable paintings at the Louvre.

The evidence was pretty damning, and Peter had to admit it was more wishful thinking than anything else that had him requesting more information. “Can you show me where this notepad was found? I’d like to see the exact condition of the room when you found it.”

It just took a minute for Paget to locate one of the Paris police officers with the crime scene photos that had been taken when they’d first arrived. The photo showed the notepad on the coffee table, a half-drunk bottle of beer sitting on top of it, and what looked like a business card laying on the table next to it.

The sick feeling in Peter’s stomach got a little worse. Because he could picture the scene perfectly -- Neal, sitting at the table, making a list, plotting a heist, drinking a beer…

Drinking a beer.

“Neal doesn’t drink beer,” Peter whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

He took a closer look at the notepad and noticed the now-dried ring that had been left by the beer bottle. He turned the page, then another, then another. That’s where he saw it. Impressions on the page, fitting neatly inside the ring that had been left by the beer bottle. “Fingerprint powder!” he called out to anyone who was listening.

Within seconds, it was clear what was written there.

_SOS_  
_Restoration Room_  
_Loading Dock_  
_Delivery Truck_  
_Thursday night/Friday morning, 2AM_

Peter smiled and turned back to Paget. “Neal’s not planning a heist, he’s sending a distress signal.”

Paget looked at him with an impressed expression on his face. “How did you know that would be there?”

Peter shrugged. “Neal doesn’t drink beer.” Paget just looked at him, clearly confused as to how that was an answer to his question, but before he could say something Peter turned back to him and asked, “You found my business card here?”

“Yes,” Paget replied. “It was on the coffee table, right next to the notepad.”

A very clear picture quickly formed in Peter’s mind. “He must have thought I was coming to see him -- that’s the only reason he’d have beer in the apartment at all. And he left my card on the table... he was hoping I would find it.”

Paget clearly wasn’t convinced. “A man with Mr. Caffrey’s reputation… how can you be sure he’s not planning something?”

Peter smiled ruefully. “With Neal, you can never be completely sure. But if he was planning something, that would be a glass of some pretentious, high-priced wine on the coffee table. Never a beer.”

“So, you don’t think there’s going to be a robbery, after all?” Paget asked.

“Oh, there’s going to be a robbery,” Peter replied. “But however Neal’s involved in it, it’s not of his own free will.”


	9. Chapter 9

“When I find out who left this, I’m going to kill them,” Alex muttered to herself.

Alex Hunter had come to Paris because of a message she’d received regarding a potential client who was looking to fence a number of extremely valuable, extremely hot paintings. There was no word yet on who the seller was, but there was nothing unusual about that for someone in her line of work. She’d been given information about what hotel she should check into, and found the room already paid for and the key waiting for her when she arrived.

None of that seemed too out of the ordinary, until she opened the door to her room and discovered a yellow origami flower sitting on her pillow. That was too much. She and Neal had always had an unusual relationship -- they’d never trusted each other, but they’d always cared about each other -- and the idea that someone was taunting her with the signal she’d shared with her dead friend seriously pissed her off.

The flower contained a note requesting a meeting at the hotel bar at 10PM, and a big part of her wanted to just throw the flower away and go back to Sardinia. But she was a professional, and the potential take from the score she’d been called in on was too much for her to walk away from. Besides, she really wanted to kick the ass of whatever bastard it was using Neal’s signal.

So, at 10PM on the dot, she arrived at the bar, not quite certain how she was going to identify her mysterious date, only to find herself facing an extremely familiar pair of blue eyes and a devilish grin she'd know anywhere. After a few seconds of what she could only describe as joy at seeing Neal sitting there, alive and well, the feeling of wanting to kick someone’s ass returned, even stronger than before.

“You son of a bitch,” she said in as calm a voice as she could manage as she slid into the seat across the table from him.

“It’s good to see you, too, Alex,” Neal said, flashing that grin again.

Alex was torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to punch him in the face. She settled for saying, “You’re looking pretty good for a ghost.”

He leaned forward across the table and his face took on a much more serious expression, one Alex would almost call sincere if the face had belonged to anyone besides Neal Caffrey. “I need your help. My return to the land of the living might not last very long unless you can help me get a message to Peter.”

“Oh, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do before I start doing you any favors,” Alex replied. “Do you know I actually mourned for you?”

“I don’t have time for explanations right now. I told Woodford that I could get the best fence in the business to help move his paintings, but that there’s no way you’d meet with him unless you met with me for ten minutes alone first.”

“Woodford? The Pink Panthers guy? How the hell did you get mixed up with someone like that.”

“I helped Peter take down the Panthers last year.”

“Are you insane? Do you know what they do to the people who double cross them?”

Neal scowled at her, “No, I have no idea. I faked my death last year just for the fun of it.”

Alex’s anger faded and was replaced with concern as she realized just how much trouble Neal was in. “But it didn’t take -- Woodford found you.”

“Yeah, and he wants me to steal half a billion dollars worth of paintings from the Louvre for him.”

“And then what? All is forgiven?” Alex asked.

“No,” Neal shook his head, “I’m pretty sure he’s planning to put a bullet through my heart the moment I hand over the paintings.”

“Then what the hell are you sticking around for?” Alex asked. “Run!”

“I can’t do that,” Neal said, leaning back in his chair. “If I run, or if I don’t deliver the paintings, Woodford will kill Peter.”

“So that’s the message you want me to deliver?”

“Yeah. I’m trusting Peter to come up with a way to stop Woodford before he kills me.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Neal shrugged, “Then it will be a big payday for you, Alex -- Woodford will have half a billion dollars worth of paintings and he’ll need the best fence in the business to move them for him.” Neal sat up a little straighter in his chair and continued, “And here he comes now, so let me introduce you.”


	10. Chapter 10

As soon as Peter walked through the doors to the Interpol office the following morning, Paget approached him. “I think you’re wrong about your boy Caffrey.” 

Peter frowned, “What makes you say that?”

“He introduced Woodford to a high-end fence last night -- one of the best in the business. Hardly the actions of a man being forced to participate.”

“You’ve got eyes on Neal?” Peter asked.

“We do now,” Paget replied, “But only out of sheer luck. We got eyes on Hunter the moment she crossed into France, and she lead us right to Caffrey and Woodford.”

“Hunter? Alex Hunter?”

“So you know her,” Paget replied.

“Oh, yeah, I know Alex. She and Neal are old friends.”

“Well, Caffrey met with his old friend last night,” Paget said, pulling out a handful of photos. “He met with her alone first, then introduced her to Woodford. And it sure as hell didn’t look like Woodford was holding him at gunpoint.” 

Peter felt himself getting a little choked up upon seeing the first picture of Neal, sitting at the table and smiling. It was one thing to know Neal was still alive, but seeing photographic proof of it was something else entirely. Neal really was still alive, or at least he had been twelve hours ago.

Peter made a silent prayer that he’d be able to keep it that way, before turning to the next picture. Neal, leaning across the table, seeming pretty intent in whatever he was saying to Alex. There were a couple more pictures, including one of Neal introducing Alex to Woodford. Peter could understand why Paget believed Neal was working with Woodford. But Peter was still convinced that Neal had intended for him to find the message on the notepad.

“Can we bring her in?” Peter asked.

“Hunter?” Paget replied. “We don’t have anything to charge her with.”

“We don’t have to charge her,” Peter said. “Just bring her in for questioning. I want to know what she and Neal talked about before Woodford got there.”

Paget looked at him skeptically, “Do you really think she’s going to tell you?”

Peter frowned. “I don’t know. Alex is very good at looking out for herself, but she cares about Neal. If it comes down to a choice between saving Neal’s life or the best pay-day of her career… well, I can’t say I’m completely sure which way she’ll go, but I’m making a bet that Neal is putting his faith in her. And I’m going to put my faith in Neal.”

********

When Peter entered his hotel room that night, he was barely surprised at all to find a visitor sitting in one of the two chairs in the room’s small living room area. “Hello, Alex.”

“Peter,” she replied. “You really didn’t have to put half the law enforcement in Paris on my trail, I was already looking for you.”

“I figured you might be,” Peter said, sitting down in the other chair.

Alex dove right in. “Neal is in a lot of trouble; he needs your help.”

Peter nodded, “Alan Woodford has Neal, and he’s forcing him to rob the Louvre.”

Alex looked impressed, “Exactly.”

“So, who is Woodford threatening?” Peter asked.

Alex’s face took on an expression very similar to one Peter had long come to recognize in Neal, one that seemed to say, “I have information, but I’m not sure I trust you with it.”

“He has Neal,” Alex said. “What makes you think he’s threatening anyone?”

“Because when Neal is being threatened, he can talk his way out of pretty much anything,” Peter said. "When someone Neal cares about is being threatened, he can’t think straight. He caves. I don’t believe for a minute he’d be working with Woodford if it was only his own life at risk.”

Alex nodded. “You’re right about that. Woodford has made it clear that if Neal tries to run, or fails to deliver the goods from the Louvre, you are the next one on his hit list.”

“And what happens when Neal delivers the artwork?”

“Woodford has promised to keep his hands off of you. But Neal is dead either way, unless you can come up with a way to save him.”

Peter sighed and leaned back in the chair. “He passed me a message, so I know the time and location the delivery is supposed to take place. I just have to make sure we have enough manpower there to take Woodford once he has the paintings, but before he has a chance to kill Neal.”

Alex stood up. “So, can you call off Interpol now? I really don’t like having government agents looking for me.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Peter said.

Alex opened the door but turned before walking through it, “Neal always said you were the best. You damned well better prove him right.”


	11. Chapter 11

Woodford had been wrong about one thing. Neal hadn’t left himself a backdoor into the Louvre's security system. But, as the man who’d designed it, he did have an intimate knowledge of how that system worked. He’d outsmarted plenty of other security systems before -- hell, it had only taken him a matter of seconds to figure out a way to outsmart the Braxnet -- but this was a little different because this time he needed to figure out a way to outsmart himself.

By the time Thursday night rolled around, Neal was reasonably confident that he had a plan. It was tough, but he figured out a way to shut down the security system, get into the building, and get out with the paintings.

Since Woodford only cared about the value of the haul, and not about which specific paintings were involved, Neal had been able to convince him that their best bet was to focus primarily on the paintings in the restoration room. That way, he’d only have to circumvent the main security system, not the separate security protecting each individual painting. But a little bit of research had told him that the paintings currently in the restoration room would fall short of the half a billion that Woodford was demanding. That was taken care of simply enough when he convinced Woodford to get someone to spill their drink on one particular Gauguin. With that painting moved to the restoration room, all the paintings he needed would be in one place by the time he arrived.

Everything went like clockwork. Shutting down the main security system, getting up onto the roof, lowering himself down with bungee cords, opening the lock to the door on the restoration room. Neal had to admit, there was a part of him that loved the challenge. He probably would have been having fun, if he didn’t know Peter’s life was on the line and that there was a better than even chance that the night might be his last on Earth.

Once he was in the restoration room, the rest was almost too easy. He made a mental note that, if he made it out of this alive, he was going to have to give the Louvre a few more pointers on how to improve their security. He got the paintings out of the restoration room, over to the loading dock, and onto the delivery van without incident.

He exited the delivery van and turned around to see Woodford standing there, waiting for him, holding a gun. “It’s good to see you’re a man of your word, Mr. Caffrey. I’m sure it won’t come as any surprise to you that I’m a man of mine, as well.”

Neal barely had time to brace himself for the expected bullet before he found himself blinded by floodlights that seemed to be coming from every direction. He heard several voices shouting “Lower your weapon, lower your weapon” before he heard two gunshots fire in rapid succession. He saw a red spot open up on Woodford’s forehead an instant before he felt a sharp pain slicing through his stomach. He fell to the ground. The last thing he was aware of was the sound of Peter’s voice shouting “NEAL!” before everything went black.

********

The first thing Neal was aware of was the sound of a steady, electronic “beep, beep, beep.”

Next, he heard some voices speaking what he was fairly certain was French, but they all seemed to overlap and he couldn’t make out what any of them were saying.

That’s when he noticed the pain slicing through his abdomen. He let out a barely audible groan.

He heard the sound of someone shifting in a chair nearby and caught a whiff of a familiar perfume before he felt a cool hand pushing back the hair from his forehead. “Are you awake? Oh, my darling boy, you gave us quite a fright!”

“June,” he said, or tried to. He found himself choking when he tried to get the word out.

“Don’t try to speak, sweetheart. You’re on a respirator. I’m sure the doctor will remove it now that you’re awake.”

June left the room briefly, presumably to alert the nurses that he was awake. When she returned, she leaned over to kiss Neal on the forehead before reclaiming her seat next to the bed and taking his hand in both of hers.

“You can’t imagine the rush of emotions I went through when Peter told me you were alive, but that you’d been shot and they were taking you to the hospital. I took the first plane to Paris. Oh, I was so terrified that I was going to lose you all over again, before I even had a chance to see you. They said the surgery went fine… they had to remove a couple of feet of intestines, but they were expecting a full recovery. Then, you developed a postoperative infection, and you had us all quite frightened for a nearly a week there. But now your fever is down, and you’re finally awake. Soon we’ll be able to take you home.”

By the time June finished speaking, the doctor and a couple of nurses entered the room. June leaned over and kissed his forehead again. “I’m going to let the doctors look after you now. Peter went to get some coffee just a short while ago; he’ll be thrilled to know you’re finally awake.”

********

After the respirator was removed, Neal found himself dozing off again. He wasn’t sure how much time passed, but when he woke again, Peter was sitting in the chair next to him, reading a magazine.

“Hi,” he said, or rather croaked, his throat still sore from the respirator.

Peter looked up from his magazine with a smile. “Well, look who’s finally awake.”

“Good to see you,” Neal said, his voice a little stronger but still very rough.

Peter laughed, “That should probably be my line. You didn’t spend the last year believing I was dead.”

“Sorry. I had to. I had to make sure--”

“I understand why you did it,” Peter interrupted. 

“You do?” Neal asked.

“I do.” Peter nodded. “Don’t ever do anything that stupid again.”

“But I--”

“No, Neal. No. You could have come to me, you could have talked to me. Maybe I could have helped you.”

Neal hung his head. “It’s just, I’ve already caused so much trouble in your life.”

Peter leaned forward in his chair and put his arms on his thighs. “Look, I do understand why you did it. But next time you’re in trouble, talk to me before you go and do something reckless and irresponsible, okay?”

Neal nodded his head silently.

“I’m not angry,” Peter continued. “I’m just glad I have the chance to bring you home.”

Neal still had his head hung as he glanced at Peter from the corner of his eyes and quietly asked, “So, am I going home in handcuffs?”

Peter smiled. “No. Jones and I have taken care of it. Your contract will be honored. You’re released from your remaining prison sentence. I also made sure you have immunity from all crimes you committed or were suspected of prior to or in connection with the arrest of the Pink Panthers.”

Neal leaned back in his bed and felt tears begin to pool in his eyes. “Peter,” he said, but couldn’t think of any words sufficient to express his thanks.

“Just don’t screw it up,” Peter said. “Because, if you do, you know I’ll catch you.”

Neal nodded and smiled. He felt himself starting to drift off again, but struggled to stay awake long enough to say, “Thank you. For finding me.”

Peter leaned forward, clasped Neal by the shoulder and smiled. “It’s what I do.”


End file.
